Just a Kiss
by Sakura Tsukikage
Summary: America tries to communicate how grown up he's getting to England in a more direct manner than usual.


**Just a Kiss**

America was nervous. Heart pounding, hot and cold all over, teeth chattering, fists clenching, stomach-twisting, couldn't stand still nervous. But he'd made his decision already, and he'd already decided that he was the kind of colony who stuck by his decisions once he made them.

And it wasn't like he hadn't been thinking about this one a while. He had been, a long time, actually. After the last time England had left for his own house America had even gone and talked to Canada about it (but Canada had apparently thought the entire idea was crazy, if the looks he'd been giving America were any indication, and that how anxious America had gotten himself over it the height of ridiculousness, not that he'd said so).

He'd first gotten the idea from watching his people. There was nothing he liked better as a way of spending his time than to go out among them and watch them in their daily lives. And that particular day he'd come upon a young woman and a young man—a boy and a girl, really—out of sight behind the stable of an inn. They'd been talking, so America hadn't thought anything of it at first. Then the boy had leaned forward and pressed his lips to the girl's, and she'd made an uneven sort of gasping sound and swayed into the boy's arms, and then things—got pretty involved, and America felt his cheeks flushing and . . . and he was getting pretty warm all over, and he wasn't quite sure why, until his brain kicked in and he realized they were kissing and he got out of there, feeling like a complete idiot.

He thought about it a little after that, but it didn't really occur to him until the next time he was talking to England, looking down at him from his strange new height (he really wasn't used to being the taller, and it made him feel oversized and clumsy and too big), and England had scowled in one of the many ways he used to disguise affection and glanced down at America the way he'd used to—and then up, and up, and flushed a little, and lost the train of his words (angry complaints about France) completely. (America had been so happy when England had actually started complaining to him rather than just saying how stressed he was but that America shouldn't worry himself over it, but now it seemed like all he ever did was come to America's house and grumble about everything under the sun.)

That was when America had realized that he felt warm all over when he was talking to England the same way he had when he'd seen the boy and girl kissing.

And that was . . . pretty strange. He thought about it for a while, and it confused him and tangled all his feelings up inside him, until it was pretty much all he could think about, and then he realized all of a sudden one day while he was chopping wood that he _wanted to kiss England_. Kind of a lot, actually. And almost chopped his foot off before he recovered himself.

Oh, Holy Lord, wasn't that something.

He didn't know what to do about the realization, because it was a strange thought anyway, and a lot of his people didn't really approve of kissing, and he wasn't even sure if men kissed other men (England had kissed him when he was little, but that was different, because he'd been just a baby then), or if countries kissed other countries, or if it was okay for colonies to kiss the empires in charge of them, or anything like that, and it made him feel very young and stupid and lost.

Then, not long after, he was invited to visit England's house. It was always incredibly exciting to be invited there, even though it didn't happen very often since he was just a colony (and that was starting to rankle, a little, because England made all his decisions for him, and he was old enough to start making some of those for himself), but it was still always exciting to go there, and be surrounded by England's things and England's people and England's hills (it was so different over there, all rolling green fields and rain and so . . . _settled_,which was what America figured England meant by "civilized"), and when he was there it was like he was surrounded by England all the time. Which could get a little old, but it was more exciting and comforting and just . . . really nice, because if there was one thing America really wanted, it was for England not to leave him alone and ignore him all the time.

That time they went over to visit Spain (he had a feeling it was so that England had a chance to gloat about something, but America didn't mind so much, because it was interesting and he didn't always completely get along with Spain, either). While they were there, France showed up, and partway through the resulting three-way argument (America sat back and interjected provoking comments, liking the way it made England's eyes brighten and mouth twist downwards as he tried to keep from laughing and the way France would tease America back), France stepped forward and put his hands on Spain's face and kissed him full on the mouth, and America thought that he might have stuck his tongue in, too. Spain made an appreciative noise, leaned in to return the kiss, and then slipped easily out of France's grasp, laughing, and hit him. France looked slyly over at England and gave him an exaggerated leer, and America laughed at England's exasperated sigh.

Still, that got him thinking, because Spain hadn't gotten particularly upset (but then, he was pretty easygoing a lot of the time), but then, neither had England, even though it was _France_. But maybe it would be okay if America tried to kiss England. It didn't seem like he'd be breaking some complicated rule he hadn't known anything about, anyway.

So he'd resolved to try it, the next time England came to visit him. The worst England could do was get angry with him . . . right? (America went a little cold inside thinking about England being angry with him, but he wasn't going to think about that too much, because then he'd chicken out and not do it. He'd already decided he wanted to, so if he didn't do it now he'd just be a coward.)

England had already arrived for his next visit, and sent America a message saying he was coming to his house, which was why he was so nervous right then. America took a deep breath and told himself not to think about it anymore—and the door opened, and England came in. He had a key, of course, the house technically belong to him.

America looked at him, and gulped, hard.

"Good day, America," England said, and then tilted his head to one side, a questioning look on his face when America didn't say anything in return. "I brought you some tea again, and I thought you might need some new clothes by now, you're growing rather quickly." America just stared at him, breathing hard, his mind a total blank except for the panic growing in his chest. _Say something!_ he told himself desperately, but he couldn't think of anything to say, except that England's eyes were really, _really_ green, and that England should never go away ever again. There was a moment of silence, and then England's eyes fell, and he shifted uncomfortably. "I . . . I am sorry I stayed away so long, America," he said, his voice low and gruff. "I didn't intend to . . ."

"Hey, England," America finally managed to say, his voice coming out all high and cracking and strange, and he blushed and forced it down again into his deeper register, moving forward to lay his hand on England's shoulder in greeting and take one of the boxes in his hands. "Um, thanks, but I'm okay for clothes; I can make my own now, remember?"

"Oh," England said. "Ah, right. Jolly good." He looked up at America, his eyebrows raised as if to ask what was going on. There was a faint line of concern etched across his forehead, and America felt a pang of guilt, because his odd behavior was obviously worrying the older nation.

America put the box down on a side table in the hall. "Um, come on in," he said. "I—uh—I have something for you, too."

"Oh?" England said, concealed curiosity and a bit of relief in his voice, unless America was imagining things, and moved forward.

"Yes, I've been thinking about it since you left last time," America said, barely aware of what he was saying. His eyes were fixed on England, his eyes and nose and the curve of his chin and . . . and his mouth. It was a nice mouth, he thought idiotically, not all that big, and sort of soft looking. He wondered what it would feel like, but it wasn't like he'd have anything to compare it to anyway.

"Come now, America, whatever is the matter?" England asked with the affectionate irritation in his voice that America was so familiar with, and America took a deep breath and wiped his sweaty hands against his trousers, then stepped forward, put both hands on England's shoulders, and set his lips down on England's scowling ones, just barely remembering to tilt his head at the last moment so their noses didn't collide, figuring that if he didn't do it right away he'd never have the courage.

In the first second of warm lips beneath his (they _were_ soft, but not all over, because they were a little chapped around the edges), a quick thrilling sort of tingle went all through him and dropped into the pit of his stomach, where the twisting nerves had lightened somehow into flitting butterflies swooping around his belly. England gasped, and America could feel his breath, moist and hot, tasting like tea, and that was when a solid, hot kind of warmth spread all the way through him, following after that tingling feeling. He moved his hand so it was at the back of England's neck, hair tousling under his hand and neck surprisingly slim despite how strong it felt, fine bones and wiry muscle under his fingers, and they were really really close together, and America liked that, liked it a lot, almost more than the kissing, but not quite. He tilted England's head back into his hand and followed England's breath with his mouth. And England stepped forward, just a little, and let America hold him and kiss him. Everything in America sort of melted into warmth and pleasure and good, great, amazing, and he heard himself make an eager noise into England's mouth and tried to pull them closer together. Their breathing was all mixed up so it felt like it was the same breaths, like it came from the same source, which might have been the best feeling yet. He swept his tongue forward into England's mouth, wondering what he tasted like, and hoped he was doing it right.

Maybe he was, because England kind of moaned under him, but maybe he wasn't, because after a split second that was bright incendiary heat and the good kind of wet that was the inside of England's mouth, England fisted both hands in the front of America's waistcoat and pushed him bodily away to set him back from himself and took several careful steps away, breathing hard. His mouth was pink and swollen (America had done that), and his chest was heaving, his hair tumbling down into his eyes, and he reached up and shoved it back, his eyes, wide and a little wild, not leaving America's.

America felt cold. He bit his lip and let England go, but he was unable to defeat the urge to wrap his arms around himself to replace how warm and solid England had been and how empty he felt now, though he managed to make it look like he had just crossed them stubbornly across his chest.

"What—" England gasped out "—what do you imagine you're doing, America?"

America felt like he was shrinking, or at least like he wanted to. He hunched his shoulders and gave a sheepish sort of grin that felt uncertain and afraid. "Kissing you?" he tried.

England's cheeks went pink, and his eyes widened, and he reached one hand up and sort of pulled on his hair, propping his other hand on his hip, and took a deep breath like he needed it to steady himself. "And—and—and why would you do a thing like that?" he asked.

Oh, God. America didn't know if England was angry with him or not, but this was almost worse; he had no idea what to do. He felt a little sick, and a little like he wanted to cry, but he wouldn't, because that would be too utterly pathetic. "I . . . I don't know, I just . . . wanted to, is all," he said, weak and scared and wretched.

England looked up at him, and his eyes softened, and he stepped forward again and reached out to curl one finger under America's chin and lift it. "Why did you want to?" he said, very gently, the way America sometimes forgot he could be, the way he was when he talked to things that weren't there, all open, with the rough, sharp edges smoothed away.

America shrugged. "I . . . I _like_ you," he said, helplessly.

England made a strange expression, but he didn't look angry or upset or disgusted, which was good, and made America feel a little better. "I like you too, Alfred," he said, "but I don't think I've ever kissed you like that before, now, have I?"

"Didn't I do it right?" America asked, a little desperately. Had he screwed up? Was that why everything had gone wrong?

England's eyes went wide again. "You . . . you did it fine, rather well for a . . . a beginner," he said. America smiled, pleased at that, and England swallowed. "It's just that it's not . . . er. It's not appropriate," he said.

Oh. America could feel his stomach collapsing. He'd been afraid it was something like that. "Why not?" he said. "I wanted to, and—and it felt nice!"

England turned a deep shade of red America had never before seen his face go. "It—it did," he stammered, and America's heart started beating faster, because England had said it felt nice, too. "But that's not—that isn't—" He took a deep breath. "I am a great deal older than you," he said, "and we're close, and I care for you quite a bit, and you . . . you like me," for a second it almost sounded like there was a question there in England's voice, but that was ridiculous, because he had to know how much America liked him, and he was still talking, anyway, "but you're very young, Alfred, and you don't—you're also very innocent."

America frowned. He didn't like the way this was going, not one little bit. It sounded a lot like the old 'you're a colony and I know better so I make all the decisions and tell you what to do' argument. "I knew what I was doing," he grumbled.

"Of course you did," England said quickly, but it didn't sound like he really thought so. "And I appreciate the sentiment behind it—" he was still sort of blushing "—but . . . you can't go around kissing everyone you like on the mouth like that, America, it's not . . . it's not decent."

America felt himself flush. "I'm sorry!" he said. "I just—"

Oh, God, oh God. He had no idea what to say. He felt hot and flushed and humiliated and miserable. "I'm sorry," he said. "I didn't mean—I'm sorry." He couldn't seem to say anything besides more apologies.

England shrugged, and half-turned away, but then he looked at America's face and hesitated. He turned back, stepped forward, laid both hands on America's cheeks, and tilted his head down to press a kiss against his forehead, quick and cool and soft. "Don't be," he murmured. "Don't be. I know you didn't mean anything by it."

America reached out and fisted his hand in the loose folds of England's shirt, too upset to be thinking about how childish and pathetic the motion was or how he'd outgrown things like that. "I just miss you so much," he said, "when you're not here, and you're never here, you're away all the time, and—and—" he made a helpless, frustrated motion, inarticulate. It was so _hard_ to say all the things he needed to say; they never seemed to come out right. His feelings never seemed to translate into words very well. That's why he'd thought kissing England would be a good idea—when other people kissed it seemed to get their feeling across pretty clearly, and kisses meant warmth and closeness and . . . and _interest_ and someplace for all that restless, hungry energy floating around inside him, mostly focused on England, to go, and that was what he _felt_. But that hadn't worked out, and he guessed he was just as bad at communicating through kisses, which kind of hurt to think about.

England's hand came up and stroked through his hair, once, then twice, and quickly. "I am sorry," he said. "I'm afraid there's nothing I can do about that, but I'm sorry you've been lonely, Alfred."

America just shrugged, his misery jumbled and confused, finding himself unable to communicate any of it to England properly. Of course he did miss him, but he liked being on his own, he was his own, and he wasn't particularly lonely. There was Mattie, after all, if he felt like he really needed to talk to someone. It wasn't that at all, it was all the mixed-up yearning he felt for England, and how he wanted England to look at him and see . . . see someone else, grown up and strong and . . . and someone he wanted to kiss, rather than a headstrong, overgrown boy of a colony.

And of course he didn't say any of that. Instead, even though he didn't mean to, he said, "I thought people kissed each other all the time over in Europe," and then stopped, horrified by what had just come out of his mouth.

England's eyes snapped up, and his shoulders stiffened. "Those Continentals," he ground out. "America, you shouldn't copy anything you see any of them doing. Barbarians, the lot of them. And especially France, what is wrong with him I'll never understand, but—"

"How did you know?" America burst out, startled into a blush, and then his eyes met England's shocked ones, and suddenly it was ridiculous and funny, and he started to laugh. England did too, his reluctant, rusty chuckle. He reached over and ruffled America's hair, rubbing his thumb over America's cheekbone, and then stepped past him and picked up the box. "There's another box outside," he said. "Come now, America, let's have a cup of tea."

"All right," America said quickly, anxious now to prolong the feeling of ease growing between them, and so he didn't bring up how England's thumb against his skin had sent sparks of warmth skittering along under his skin and or how his hand in his hair made his breathing go ragged. "That sounds good to me."

England smiled at him, and went on into the house, and America went outside.

He stared down at the box of tea, and sighed.

There was a tax receipt along one side. He ran his hands back into his hair and covered his eyes with his palms and breathed hoarsely, unevenly past them for a good minute. What a disaster.

Was it always going to be like this? Would he always be the child, the colony, the . . . the silly little boy? Was England ever going to take him seriously? That kiss had felt serious to America.

He picked the tax receipt up, glared unfocusedly at the percentage, and then crumpled it up and stuck it in his pocket, bending down to pick up the box

Historical/Author's Notes:  
1. I'm not as up on this period of history as I should be, so most of the details in this were pulled from the scattered remnants of my Revolutionary War phase in third and fourth grade and the musical _1776_, and I didn't try too hard to make the dialogue period accurate, though maybe I should have. I was imagining America as about fourteen here (but then, he's only nineteen in WWII, so don't ask me how that chronology would work, because _I _don't know).  
2. The thing with Britain and France and Spain doesn't have any historical incident that it's based on, besides the fact that they were basically three of the most powerful world powers around then (though Spain was a bit on the decline). In my head this would be around the time that Spain started chilling out from his reckless, cocky, conquistador phase.  
3. The people of America's who don't approve of kissing would be the Puritans, of course. They left the poor boy very confused about the whole thing for a good long time, I think (which is one of the reasons I wrote him as rather innocent about such things here) Didn't last, of course, but there are parts of him that are still very puritan and can be shocked at certain things, even with all he's gotten up to since.


End file.
